Grey
by potterology
Summary: He recognised this for what it was: a dead man's walk to the gallows. - A conversation/scene before the final push between Garrus and Jane.


On a beam, staring down into the black, scorched abyss that was London, he found her. Thousands of bodies littered the streets - human, asari, krogan, they all looked the same - and a river of purpling blood ran along the gutters, into a rapidly forming pond at a dip in the road. It was a bad scene. Garrus watched her for a moment, watched the shadows align themselves around her, allowing the moonlight to bathe her in glorious purpose.

"This is sad," she said quietly. Had it not been for his superior hearing, he might have missed the pain in her voice. Had he been anyone else, he might have overlooked it.

"Yes. It is." He stepped up to join her, neglecting to edge out onto the exposed scaffolding, choosing instead to lean against where it met the wall. They were close, only a few feet from one another, but he had somehow never felt farther away. Not even when she was dead.

"How much more can we take, Garrus?" she asked, her voice still low, still strained. Never in his life had he wanted to answer a question so badly, but he genuinely didn't know. The silence was all he could offer. Her eyes slid shut in what he could only think of as defeat (the word tasted sour; it was something he'd never before associated with Jane Shepard) and she hung her head. He could only just make out her profile as she turned slightly towards him, a terrifying silhouette in the dark. Words of comfort died in his throat as he watched her. This was not the shadow of a soldier on the edge of victory, this was not the disposition of a leader about to walk on to a battlefield. No, he recognised this for what it was: a dead man's walk to the gallows.

Something Kaiden once said to him, a long time ago. _Once in a while, Atlas should shrug._

He couldn't hold the gaze. His eyes went to the street, his razor sharp sniper instincts spotting turian corpses before he could stop himself. The way the bodies were strewn along the sidewalk and road, the way they twisted in such bizarre and inanimate ways, he couldn't help but think of the ant colonies he'd seen in an Ilium pet-torium.

"They look like ants," he said, his arms folded. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her shoulder stiffen. There was a hard moment of tension between them; he suddenly felt the same way he had the first time they'd met. He'd been angry with the Council, with Saren, with _her_. He had instantly disliked her, thought of her as an uppity human with a game plan and an ulterior motive. He'd been shrewd and careful, not quite believing in her the way he now knew he should have. Things had been strained, as they were now.

His eyes slid to the tight set of her jaw and the thin line of her lips. "I think they look like giants." The statement - a cold affirmation in the night - clung to the air, and to him.

"They're dead, Jane." He regretted it the instant he said it. She whirled on him, furious.

"And that makes any of them less of a hero?" Now that he could see her, tear tracks in the blood and dirt were easily noticed.

"I never said that." He paused, waiting for a response. When he didn't get one, he continued, "I prefer to see things in black and white."

"Yeah, I remember." She turned away. From up here, he could smell burnt flesh and the unmistakable odour of rot that came from Reaper blood.

"Then you know I don't know what to do with grey." He uncrossed his arms and stood properly, his eyes boring into the back of her head. "This," he gestured to the battered city before them, "is grey. So I have two choices: I can be my devastatingly handsome, charming witty self about this, or I can be a grown up, and spend my last hours a solemn, useless philosophizing bastard."

Lame attempt though it was, she let out a somewhat mirthless half-laugh and turned back to him. The anger was gone, replaced with determination and… something else he couldn't name. She travelled back down the precarious beam and stood in front of him, hilariously two feet shorter. He smiled down at her.

"You're wrong," she said, her voice solid. He raised an eyebrow.

"Oh really?"

"These aren't your last hours." Despite the assurance in her face, he scoffed. "I mean it. If you die on me, I will kick your ass every which way."

And when he laughed, he really meant it.


End file.
